


Double-edged

by dotfic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode Tag, Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-19
Updated: 2008-01-19
Packaged: 2017-10-29 16:19:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/321776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dotfic/pseuds/dotfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's father is not a superhero.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Double-edged

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Continuation of the flashback portions of 3x08. More extended author notes at the end. Thank you to the lovely [](http://innie-darling.livejournal.com/profile)[**innie_darling**](http://innie-darling.livejournal.com/) for her thoughtful beta reading.
> 
> [ETA: [](http://dodger-winslow.livejournal.com/profile)[**dodger_winslow**](http://dodger-winslow.livejournal.com/) has written a terrific companion piece on what John was doing that delayed him getting back to Sam and Dean, [The Naughty List](http://dodger-winslow.livejournal.com/125294.html) (Gen, PG-13).]

The wind's still howling and the snow's a few inches thick on the ground when Dean says he's going out to get breakfast. He puts on his jacket and gloves and scarf, then hesitates, hand on the door knob, looking at Sam.

Sam lowers the comic book he wasn't really reading anyway. "What?"

"Nothing. I'll be right back, Sam. Okay?"

"Okay," Sam says, shrugging. He can't ever sound as cool as Dean does, but he tries.

Besides, he knows Dean will come back. Dean will always come back.

He watches TV while Dean's gone, turning up the volume to drown out the wind. About half an hour later, there's the sound of a key in the lock and for a second Sam thinks it might be Dad, and his heart jumps. He scrambles to his feet.

It's just Dean, snow dusting his hair and shoulders, holding two bags of groceries. Sam scuffs the toe of his sneaker against the carpet, lowers his head so his hair falls over his eyes. Of course it's Dean. Sam drops back down onto the couch and folds his arms.

Dean hands him a pop-tart on a plate and Sam says _thanks,_ as warmly as he can, so Dean won't figure out he was maybe waiting for someone else to come through the door.

They eat the cold pop tarts and watch TV as the morning wears on -- there's no kitchenette, but the motel does have cable. There are needles all over the floor from the tree top Dean snagged from some dumpster and the room smells like pine and musty old carpet and whatever soap they use on the sheets.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sam sees Dean fingering the amulet around his neck, tracing the bumps of the golden face and poking the horns against the pads of his fingers. He has no idea what the thing is supposed to be but since it came from Uncle Bobby, it probably does something real important. Maybe Uncle Bobby'll tell him, next time they see him. Only maybe Uncle Bobby really thought it was important for Sam to give it to Dad, and Uncle Bobby'll be mad.

Without warning, Dean chucks a couch cushion at Sam.

"Jerkface," Sam says, shoving the cushion onto the floor, but he doesn't throw it back. What's the point? Winning a pillow fight against Dean won't fix things.

Dean doesn't give up, though. He starts poking Sam in the side, the shoulder, the ear. Each time, Sam swats him away tiredly until at last, he breaks.

"Knock it off!" He yells. It feels good, letting the noise and fury out.

He tackles Dean, pulling him to the floor, digging his knees into Dean's stomach and pulling Dean's hair. Dean just laughs, so Sam works harder, but he knows Dean's letting him win. Finally Dean gives a bored little sigh, and kicks Sam off.

"Hair pulling? You're such a dweeb. That's girl-fighting."

Sam rolls up, grabs Dean's arm, and twists it up behind his back, pushing Dean's chin against the carpet. Sam's seen Dad show Dean this move lots of times without ever knowing why. Like with Dad's journal, it makes more sense now.

When Dean goes limp, Sam lets go, but it's only a trick: Dean grabs his arm and tugs hard, pulling Sam to the carpet. He digs his knees into Sam's chest to pin him.

"Not bad, Sammy." Dean gets up and holds out a hand to help Sam up, but Sam ignores him and flops down on the couch by himself, eyes fixed on the TV again.

Dean goes to make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Sam steals glances at him, watching Dean spread the peanut butter evenly over the bread, making it fair so they each have the same amount. He licks the grape jelly off his fingers before he puts the lid back on the jar and goes to rinse off the sticky knife in the sink on the back wall.

They eat the sandwiches using paper towels for plates. Outside the windows the light is less bright than it was. Sam sits with his knees drawn up to his chin, the heavy, sweet smell of peanut butter covering the mustiness of the room.

"Dean?" Sam asks.

Dean turns away from the TV, shoving the last bite of his sandwich into his mouth. "Yeah?"

"You think Dad's okay?"

"Sure he is. Maybe he had trouble with the car."

Sam tries to make sense of that. " _Our_ car?"

Dean laughs like it's no big deal, like there's nothing wrong. "Yeah, sure, you're right. But don't worry Sam, Dad's really good at what he does. He's the best. I'll bet there were more of them than he thought, so it's taking longer."

"More of _what_?" Sam demands.

Dean swallows and fingers the amulet again.

"I dunno. Dad didn't say specifically. I know there are things killing people over in Red Willow County."

"But why did _he_ have to? Couldn't they send someone else?"

"I dunno," Dean says again, and shrugs.

Dean had said Dad was a superhero. But in the comic books, there was more than one of those, wasn't there? There was a whole Justice League. Was Dad the only one who could kill monsters?

Dad couldn't be Superman, because Superman couldn't get hurt unless there was kryptonite, and Sam knew his dad had been hurt a few times. Dad and Dean had always said those were accidents, but now Sam imagines things with claws ripping into his father. The last taste of peanut butter goes sour in his mouth.

Maybe Dad is Batman. Batman was only a regular guy, not an alien, and still it was hard to beat Batman. But Batman had armor. Dad doesn't have armor, just an old leather jacket.

The sun starts to set and Dean gets up to throw away the empty junk food wrappers, the paper towels, and the girlie gifts and wrapping he stole from the nice house. He gathers up the needles that have fallen from the tree. It only takes him five minutes, and then he looks like he doesn't know what to do next.

Dean opens the door at one point, staring out at the snow falling over the parking lot. Sam goes over to join him.

They stand there together. The motel's outside lights make each snowflake sharp, and it's cold. Sam looks up at his brother, but can't read anything in his face. Dean's mouth is in a tight, firm line. Finally Dean closes the door, then gets a canister of salt and starts laying it down along the door and windowsills. It's a familiar routine, but it has meaning now, reasons why Dean does this so carefully, making sure not to skip a spot.

It gets even later, and Sam refuses to go to bed, instead curling up small in the corner of the couch, listening for Dad's car. Despite the wind, the silence feels crushing, something waiting to jump out at them from the shadows.

Monsters are real. Sam rolls the idea around in his head as if it were a marble, stares into its depths.

He drifts off for a while, until a small noise wakes him. It's really late. The room's empty, but there's a thin line of light under the bathroom door. The water's running, both the sink and the bathtub from the sound of it.

Sam goes over and puts his ear against the door, but all he can hear is water and a soft, choked noise he can't identify. He's about to knock, to say his brother's name, when he hears Dean moving around inside. The water shuts off. Sam hurries back to the couch, hops over the back of it, and lands on the cushions.

When Dean emerges, his face looks a little too fresh-scrubbed.

"Go back to sleep, Sammy," he says, his voice calm, a little scratchy. Dean flops onto his bed, picks up a comic book, and starts flipping through it. He keeps turning his wrist, checking his watch, and his glance keeps moving to the phone on the nightstand.

It's the sound of a deep, growly engine that wakes Sam hours later, not Dean's voice saying, "Sam, wake up, it's Dad."

Dad's already got the door open before Dean can reach for the knob, letting in a blast of wind, snow and cold. He's a large shadow bundled up in his jacket and dark scarf and hat, heavy duffel bag slung over one shoulder. The snow's dusting him like he's walked miles but the Impala is parked outside their room.

Sam can't move, can't run to Dad like he usually does. He watches as Dean hurries to Dad instead.

"Hey, Dean." The duffel falls to the rug with a thump and Dad kneels, grabbing him, pulling him in close. He kisses the top of Dean's head.

"Are you hurt?" Dean steps back.

"I'm okay. Rough job."

"Were there a lot of them?"

"'Bout eight of them. Dude, they were _fugly_."

"Really?" Dean looks again, as if he's hoping to find slime or monster guts, something cool. There are stains on Dad's jeans that could be monster guts.

Sam's stomach twists. This is all wrong. Dad missed _Christmas_ , Dad could've _died_ , and all they want to talk about is monsters.

"Sammy," Dad says, and reaches out, but Sam steps back. "Kiddo, with the snow, took me longer than I thought--"

"I know about the monsters," Sam says, watching Dad's eyes widen with surprise before he glances at Dean. "You don't have to lie to me any more." Then he walks past Dad, past Dean, goes into the bathroom, and slams the door.

The bathroom's cold. He tries not to touch the sides of the tub, grabs a rumpled towel, spreads it down and sits on that instead. He stays in the bathroom a long time, sitting in the tub with his knees drawn up to his chin. He can probably hold out for a while, and he can pee if he needs to. Food might become a problem but he can get Dean to poke another peanut butter and jelly sandwich under the door.

There's no way he can look at Dad right now.

He hears Dad and Dean moving around in the other room, talking, maybe about him, or maybe about what Dad hunted. He tells himself he doesn't care if Dean gets into trouble for blabbing.

There were eight of them, Dad said, eight of...whatever. Eight seems like a lot. He thinks about his father with eight monsters all snarling at him with their claws extended, fangs dripping with saliva, and has to close his eyes because it's scary, scarier than the horror movies Dean laughs at.

He almost bolts right out of the tub to run out into the other room until the rumble of his father's voice through the wall comforts him and renews his anger. He stays put.

After a while, he gets bored sitting in the tub doing nothing. Sam counts the tiles and considers taking a bath while the voices from the other room get quiet.

There's a soft tap on the door. "Sammy?"

It's Dean.

"What?" He's not mad at Dean, at least he wasn't until Dad came back and Dean acted like Dad hadn't done anything wrong. As if Dad hadn't made it clear he's more interested in monsters than he is in Sam and Dean. So what if Dad's a superhero. What good is a superhero Dad if he's not there on Christmas, if he _lies_?

"I gotta pee. And brush my teeth. So does Dad."

Sam climbs out of the tub, opens the door, and goes to sit on the couch, staring at the blank, dark TV screen to avoid looking at Dad. But he can see his father in the reflection. He's sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, and sometimes he raises his head to look towards Sam, but he doesn't speak.

When Dad and Dean are done getting ready for bed, Sam gets up and marches back into the bathroom.

"You want a blanket? Or a sandwich?" Dean asks.

"No," Sam says, and shuts the bathroom door.

There's a soft sigh through the door, then Dad's voice, soft now, and then quiet.

He tries to sleep but it's too cold in the tub. Finally he gives up, gets out of the tub, switches off the bathroom light, and goes back into the other room.

Dad's asleep in the bed nearest the door, snoring. That had been Dean's bed last night. The three nights before, when Dad was there with them, Dad had slept on the couch. But now Dad's in one bed and Dean's asleep in Sam's. He watches them, the rise and fall of their chests, and thinks Dad probably rated the bed because he'd killed eight monsters and he said something about driving fast through the snow to get back here. So he must be tired.

He tells himself he doesn't care if Dad winds up sleeping on the floor, really.

The room's cold; outside the snow's still falling. Sam hugs himself, unwilling to get out of his clothes and put on his pajamas. He almost climbs into bed next to Dean -- he might complain about it, but he'd still let Sam do that on cold nights.

But he feels apart, right then, even from Dean. Like he's a pine tree top left by a dumpster.

He finds the extra blanket, falls asleep on the couch, and has bad dreams. Each time he wakes up, he sits up in the darkness and peers over the back of the couch at the shapes of his father and brother asleep in their beds.

In the snowy glow of the lights of the motel's sign, he notices that Dean sleeps with the amulet around his neck.

He's awake to see dawn arrive. The snow stopped during the night, leaving behind a whited-out stillness. Sam's groggy all morning, dragging himself through brushing his teeth while Dean and Dad move quickly to pack up their gear.

"C'mon, Sammy, get a move on," Dean says, as Sam almost falls asleep over his pop tarts.

Dad tries to ruffle his head but Sam pulls away.

"You okay, buddy?" Dad asks.

"Fine," Sam says, breaking his pop tart in half because he wants to get at the gooey fruit center first. Looking at the pastry, not at Dad. Never looking at Dad. Sometimes he accidentally looks at him, when Dad moves or when Sam has to go over and pack up his knapsack. Dad looks tired when he does, worrying over something.

They load up the car, like always. The morning's bright and cold, their breaths rising up in clouds. The plows have been through, so Dad's moving them on -- Sam'll be happy if he never sees Broken Bow again.

He sits as far to the right as he can get in the big back seat, slouching, muttering one or two-word answers when Dad asks him questions like _is the heat on high enough, is he hungry, could he hand Dean the map that's jammed in the foot well?_

After an hour or so, Dean turns in his seat, grins, and smacks Sam's leg.

"Knock it off," Sam says, folding his arms and slouching down so far he feels like he might slide right off the seat.

Usually he doesn't mind the long hours in the car that much. The Impala smells familiar, and he's got his things stashed in the pockets and cracks. Sometimes when they drive overnight Sam wakes up and stares at the glow of the dashboard dials, at Dad with his hands on the wheel while Dean sleeps in the passenger seat. But right now, in the glaringly bright day, the sun reflecting off the snowfall, he wants to be somewhere else, anywhere else except another dim motel room. But that's what's waiting for them, whenever Dad decides they've been driving long enough.

So he's surprised when Dad takes an exit after only another hour of driving. They go past a gas station and a few small, dingy houses. The evergreen bushes are spots of color, along with the business signs. The Impala pulls into the lot of a shopping center, and Dad parks the car outside a restaurant.

"You boys hungry?"

"Yes, sir," says Dean, and scrambles to unbuckle his seatbelt.

Sam sits up, doubtfully peering through the window frosted with his warm breath. Besides the restaurant, there's a big supermarket, a post office, and a liquor store. That's it. He can't see a bookstore or a library anywhere nearby, although the supermarket is the kind that sells everything, even books.

Dad and Dean climb out, the car rocking slightly as they slam their doors. Sam has no choice but to zip up his parka, pull on his mittens, tug his wool hat over his head, and follow them into the restaurant.

A woman with short, curly dark hair smiles at them and leads them to a booth in the front window. She talks to Sam like he's three years old, saying how cute he is. Sam doesn't feel cute. Dean puts on the act he does around some types of women, grinning at her, trying to order a beer. She laughs, the sound warm and bubbly, and Dean looks disgustingly pleased with himself.

Even Dad smiles a little. She takes their order, and after she's gone, Dad stands up.

"Where are you going?" Sam says.

Dean kicks him. "He has to pee, dummy."

"No, I have to go run an errand over in the supermarket. Dean, you hold down the fort here for fifteen minutes or so, all right?"

"Sure, Dad."

Sam can't believe it, Dad's leaving them again, before they've even had breakfast. It doesn't matter that he says he'll be back in fifteen minutes; Dad's a liar. He's a liar, and monsters are real, and he might not come back. Maybe there are monsters living behind the supermarket.

His hands curl into fists on the table as he watches his father walk out of the restaurant, looking too big for the place with its low wooden booths, baby booster seats, and ice cream cakes.

"Take it easy, Sam." Dean says. "Man said he'd be right back. He'll be right back."

"How do you know that?"

"Because it's _Dad_." Dean shrugs like this is all the answer required, the way he might say that the coffee is hot, but Sam hears the edge to Dean's voice. He wonders if Dean's mad at him for doubting, or if Dean doubts too.

He watches through the big sunny window of their booth. After what seems like only a few minutes, he sees Dad come out of the supermarket holding a shopping bag. He climbs over a big snowdrift that would be a mountain to Sam but Dad walks over it easy and quick.

Dad slides into the booth, shrugging out of his coat and putting the bag on the table. "Merry day after Christmas. I got you each something." He reaches into the bag and pulls out a portable radio with headphones. It's brand new, sealed in clear, hard plastic. "Dean. It's not a cassette player, but maybe we can manage one of those later."

"Awesome!" Dean's face lights up. He tears the radio out of the plastic. Dad hands him a small package of AA batteries as well, and Dean loads them right in. "Thanks, this is great."

Sam presses his hands between his knees, watching them across the booth. Dad's looking at him now, and Sam tries not to feel excited about what might be in the bag for _him_.

He doesn't want a present from Dad. He doesn't.

The waitress arrives with their food. Even Dad ordered something sweet, and he almost never eats a sweet breakfast, waffles with maple syrup. There's strawberry pancakes with bacon for Sam and Dean.

"C'mon, Sammy, don't you want to see what Dad got you?" Dean puts the headphones on and starts bobbing his head, eyes closed.

But Dad tugs them off. "Not at the table, Dean."

"Right, sorry, sir." He puts the radio away and instead dribbles syrup all over his pancakes.

"Sure, whatever," Sam says, the way he's heard Dean say it when he's particularly bored by something, or trying to act bored, knowing it'll bug Dad if he's not eager.

Still, his stomach flutters a little -- Dad always finds something interesting for them, every birthday, every Christmas, even if there's no money.

He opens the bag and finds a hardcover of _Where's Waldo?_. Sam and Dean had flipped through it in a public library a few months back, laughing as they pointed out the wacky things the tiny people were doing in the background of each picture but they hadn't had much time to search for Waldo himself. Sam wonders if Dad knows about the half-naked lady in the beach scene.

"Thank you," Sam mumbles. Most of Dad's gifts are really for all of them -- Dean's present is useful, since they can listen to weather or news on it, and the only other radio they have is in the Impala. But _Where's Waldo?_ is just for him.

"Whoa, score!" Dean says, leaning across the table to peer at the book. He Dean tucks into the food.

Sam picks at his, swirling a forkful of pancake around in the syrup. As if a book about a skinny, weird looking guy in a striped shirt can put things right.

They finish breakfast, and Dad pays the check.

After another half day's driving, Dad makes a call at a gas station pay phone. He checks the map after that, and at nightfall, they stop at a motel. Instead of settling in after they unload their bags, Dad starts gathering up things he's not bothering to hide from Sam anymore, knives with iron blades, an axe, a metal cutter. Sam's surprised when Dad tells Sam and Dean to get back in the car, because they're tagging along on this one.

"Water spirit's making a nuisance of itself in the junior high school," Dad says on the way, the brightness of passing headlights passing over his face in the darkness. "Messing with the water temperature, causing floods, making a hell of a lot of noise. A few teachers and kids have been injured, only a matter of time before it kills someone. Going to have to lure it out of the pipes with a summoning incantation, then stab it with an iron blade."

It's strange, being at school in the middle of the night. The two-story building looks like a dozen schools Sam has been to, faded old brick and tall windows, but scarier at night, like a haunted castle. Dad puts on gloves and defuses the alarm system. "You boys don't ever do this," he tells them, using a cutter on the chains on the side door. "And it's only..."

"For hunting," Dean whispers, and Dad rests his hand on the top of Dean's head approvingly.

"You got that, Sam?" Dad says.

"Yes, sir," Sam answers, thinking he doesn't want to hunt. He has no intention of breaking into buildings in the middle of the night, ever. Dean stole Christmas to make him feel better but Dean shouldn't have had to steal Christmas, or anything else. They should have it without stealing.

Inside, the floors gleam with moonlight, the hallways shadowed and empty. Their footsteps tap too loud. There's a low, faint sighing moan in the air.

"Here's what I need you boys to do. We have to find where the spirit's at right now. You'll know it when you find it, because you'll hear it, rattlin' and moaning in the pipes. If you find it, you come back to this hallway and shout for me, and I'll go break open the pipes and kill it. If you find it, don't stay near it, you come running back out here right away, you hear me? Dean?"

"Yeah."

"And you don't let Sam out of your sight."

"Yes, sir."

"You got a flashlight?"

Dean fumbles in the pocket, pulls one out and switches it on.

"All right. I'm checking the south end. If we don't find anything, meet back here in twenty minutes."

Dad doesn't bother with a flashlight as he walks away down the hall, bag over his shoulder. He turns a corner and Sam can't see him anymore. The soft moaning continues, distant and hollow.

"Is that the spirit?" Sam whispers.

"No," Dean aims his flashlight over towards a classroom door. "Dad would've said something. That's the wind through the clock tower. The spirit will make more noise. Different."

Sam follows Dean as they check the rooms. If the door's unlocked, they go inside and stand listening. If the door's locked, they put their ears to the glass. The desks are empty, waiting to fill up with kids.

The next door they come to has no window in it. It's thicker than the others, marked "BASEMENT."

"We should probably check down there," Dean says, and rattles the knob.

"But it's locked."

Dean looks down the hall in the direction Dad went, then pulls something else out of the pocket of his jacket, a long, thin metal stick. "Dad doesn't know I have this, so don't you tell him."

"What is it?"

"Hunting tool," says Dean, kneeling. He pokes the stick into the lock, jiggles it around. There's a soft click, and the door opens.

Sam's jaw drops. "Where did you learn that?"

"Watching Dad." Guided by the beam of Dean's flashlight, they go down the steps with Dean in the lead.

They wander through the basement. There are bins of old sports equipment, broken desks, battered filing cabinets. The place smells musty. Exposed pipes and cobwebs run along the ceiling.

"Hey, check this out," Dean says, and pushes a wide, battered metal door, grunting with the effort of opening it. The door creaks in a way that makes Sam's scalp crinkle.

There's a small, windowless room, silent and cold, with graffiti on its cinderblock walls. The flashlight picks up "Cindi + Evan, 1982." A wooden chair stands in one corner next to a battered desk that looks more old-fashioned than the ones upstairs.

Dean holds the door open with one hand. "Check out the dust. I'll bet one no one's been in her for years."

There are more exposed pipes on the back wall, the sound of dripping. If Sam were a water spirit, this is where he'd hang out when he wasn't off scaring people, but they can't hear anything down there, not even the wind. "Maybe we should go listen to the pipes," Sam says, curious in spite of himself. He moves slowly towards the wall.

"Nah, we'd hear it from where we are if it were here. Sam, no, stay with me, dork face!" He feels Dean's hand snag the back collar of his parka, and then a creak and a loud bang.

They both turn. The door's closed.

"Crap. That thing's going to be a pain to open." Dragging Sam with him, Dean goes over to the door, hands Sam the flashlight, and tugs on the metal handle. "Crap," he says again. Dean lets go of the handle, takes a deep breath, and tugs harder, leaning his whole body away from the door, sneakers flat against the cement floor.

Sam puts the flashlight down and wraps his fingers next to Dean's around the handle. They both pull.

The door won't budge. It's not the weight of it; Dean pushed it open before. Dean crouches and aims the flashlight into the door crack.

"Okay," he says, and stands up. "Not a problem. We need to find an iron bar or something, you can pry it open while I pull. Door's old, it probably warped and now it's stuck." They check the whole room but there's nothing like an iron bar, nothing they can wedge into the door frame for leverage. "Not a problem." Dean sits down on the floor and leans his elbows on his knees. "We'll figure out something else."

Sam sits next to him, cross-legged, and waits. Dean always finds a way; it's only a matter of time.

"You think Dad got the water spirit yet?" Sam asks, after they've waited a while.

Dean wrinkles up his nose, like anyone would be insane to doubt it. "By now, yeah." He stands up, goes over to the door, pulls on the handle again. "Damn."

"Maybe we should yell for Dad?"

"What, and have him think we're a couple of babies who can't stay out of trouble? We'll figure this out ourselves." He looks at his watch. "It's only been fifteen minutes, check-in's at twenty." He shines his flashlight around again, even though they've already checked the room three times.

After a while, Dean says, "It's a little stuffy in here."

But Sam feels the stir of air, down at his ankles; the bottom of the door has a gap of a few inches.

Dean goes back to pulling on the handle. "Time's up."

But the door isn't moving.

"We gotta get back to Dad." Dean lets go of the door handle, rubs his fingers on the thighs of his jeans, then goes back to tugging at the handle again. "He's probably wondering where we are, he'll be worried sick. Help me, Sammy!" There's a fresh crack in Dean's voice, and angry like when he yelled at Sam about Mom on Christmas Eve.

As if Mom belongs only to Dean, and he wants to keep her shut away safe, not share. But she belongs to Sam too...

Dean says a bad, four-letter word that Dad told them never to use, hits his fists against the door, and then kicks it.

They both tug at the door again. Dean's breathing turns to hard gasps. There's something wrong. Sam grabs up the flashlight and aims it at his brother, sees the shine of sweat on his forehead.

"What're you doing? Get that thing out of my face," Dean shouts, and kicks the door again.

Sam stands holding the flashlight, doesn't want to get in Dean's way as he rams his shoulder hard against the metal door with dull thuds. It seems like that's only hurting Dean; the door's too big for him to dent it. Dean kicks it again, then staggers back, his breath ragged. He bends over, hands on his knees, panting like he's been running for a long time, gasping for air.

"Dean!" Sam goes over to him, touches his brother's shoulder, feels the muscles tense under his fingers.

Dad. Dad'll know what to do, they should have called for him in the first place. "Dad!" Sam yells. "Dad! We're down here! Dad!" Those horrible noises keep coming from his brother's chest and throat. Sam aims the flashlight again and Dean's still bent double, looking like he's going to fall down. "Daddy!"

After a minute, he hears Dad's voice through the door. "Sam?"

The relief floods through him so strong his eyes well up. He takes a deep breath to hold back a sob. "There's something wrong with Dean, he's breathing funny, we can't get the door open, it got stuck."

"Get away from the door," Dad orders.

Sam grips Dean's sweaty hand and tugs him away. There's a loud boom, then two more, and the door slams open to reveal Dad, just lowering his leg.

Without needing to be told, Sam lets go of Dean's hand and grabs the door to hold it open. Dad goes right over to Dean, picks him up, and carries him out, Sam on his heels.

The door bangs shut behind them. Sam follows Dad, who's still carrying Dean, through the basement, and up the stairs. Dean's still making the terrible noises and Sam can hardly see anything because his eyes are so blurry from crying. Snot drips down onto his upper lip and he sniffs and wipes his nose on his sleeve.

"Dean, listen to me." Dad's using a firm but soft voice Sam can't ever remember him using before. He's sitting on the floor, pulling Dean into his lap, keeps talking steadily. "There's lots of air up here, son. Breathe in. You're not trapped in there any more, see? It's okay. It's going to be okay."

Sam crawls over to both of them, grabs Dean's hand again, and feels Dean's fingers close tight around his.

All the while Dad's still talking in that gentle, calm voice. "No shame in freaking out about small places, kiddo. We've all got something we're scared of. You know your mom was like that? Couldn't stand to be confined anywhere for too long. Sometime I should tell you the story of how we first met. And boy, how she hated waiting, you should've seen her, waiting for you, and you were early." Dean's breaths are slowing a little, so Dad sets him on his feet, but keeps his grip on Dean's shoulders. "That's it, easy. Easy."

Finally Dean's breathing loses the harsh, rasping sound. A shuddering sigh goes through him. He lets go of Sam's hand, leans forward, puts his forehead on Dad's shoulder, and Dad's arms go around him.

"Didja get the spirit?" Dean says weakly, voice muffled against Dad's coat.

"Yeah, found it in the cafeteria. It's dead."

Smoothing his hand over Dean's hair, Dad studies him a moment, checking to make sure everything's as it should be, and then Dad looks over at Sam. "You okay, Sammy?"

He doesn't feel okay; his legs are shaky and he feels like he's going to start crying and not be able to stop. Sam nods, wiping his nose on his sleeve again.

Dad looks at Sam, looks _through_ him. For a second it feels as if Dad knows everything he's thinking. With one hand still holding Dean, Dad reaches out.

Sam takes a step towards his father, and Dad's pulling Sam against him, into the curve of his arm until he's tucked in next to Dean.

Dad's heart is beating too fast and loud. His jacket has a slimy patch on it. Sam realizes, _he's scared_.

Sam puts his arms around his father's neck, and holds on tight.

~end

  
author's notes:  
+This story references a fanon event mentioned in one of my earlier stories, [The Uses of Sarcasm](http://dotfic.livejournal.com/71424.html). When I wrote that, I had no idea hyperventilating Dean was actually going to turn out to be canon.  
+It also briefly references other things that are part of the fanon that lives in my head about John and Mary.  
+Pretend this fits with my other preseries stories, which 3x08 has rendered AU. I'm following canon here.


End file.
